Leader To All, Subject To None
by A Horde of Axolotls
Summary: He was the wealthiest and most powerful man ever to live. He was leader to all, and subject to none. And yet he was empty. / Short, dumb fic that just kinda popped into my mind. Rated T for slight violence.


Fire rained from the skies. Roars and bellows and other such powerful, all-encompassing blasts of sound rang in his ears.

 _Fo Krah Diin._

 _Yol Toor Shul._

 _Fus Ro Dah._

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

 _Fus Ro Dah._

 _Yol Toor Shul._

 _Fo Krah Diin._

The dragon continued to swoop and swirl in the air above the Khajiit, and while it defiantly put on a show of being strong, large and hot drops of blood continued to fall and spatter on the cobble road and grass, hissing as it cooled on the colder Skyrim ground. The Khajiit's ears flattened as he inhaled to release one last final Shout; he knew that the dragon was far more wounded than it was letting on. His tail lashed like a whip as he Shouted.

" _JOOR ZAH FRUL!"_

The blast of air and magic rushed and slammed into the dragon's side. It gave a strangled howl as it was forcibly dragged to the ground, mortality coiling itself around its neck like the serpent it was. The beast's baleful glare settled on the approaching Dragonborn, _Dovahkiin,_ the Savior of Tamriel. Fear made the monster desperate, and it struggled against its invisible bindings to free its wings. But it was too late; the Khajiit lunged forward and buried his blade deep between the dragon's eyes. It gave one last roar of fury and defiance, ringing from the valley to the mountains, chilling souls and ringing in ears. But its fight was over.

The Khajiit took a long, deep breath, and sighed slowly as the dragon's flesh began to glow and dissipate into a spirit-like mist, hovering in the air a moment before rushing towards him. While the sound of whistling wind, and the very, very faint sound of a soul whispering to him hissed in his ears and blocked out most of anything else, the gasps of the surrounding townsfolk did not evade him. His clawed fingers twitched, a small spark of dismay smoldering in his belly. The hood that had covered his furred, cat-like head had long since been blown off during the battle, and now the whole population of Dragon Bridge – a grand total of ten, if one included the goat in that count – knew exactly who their savior was.

"The Dragonborn is a _Khajiit?_ "

"But isn't it a Nordic prophecy?"

"Wait, I've seen him here before! Isn't his name-"

He flattened his ears to the hushed whispers. He was used to it at this point, as the inhabitants of Skyrim were admittedly just as cold as the land around them, but it still left an uneasiness rolling in the pit of his stomach. There were those that were not so pleased with the fact that their savior that had been spoken of for centuries turned out to be a cat man hailing from Elsweyr, and many that had attempted to take the Khajiit's life. Poison in his wine, a dagger while he slept, some sort of "training accident." He had seen it all.

But this was not the time to entertain such dark thoughts. Slowly sheathing his Daedric blade, he turned and raised his voice to address the crowd that had gathered by the Four Shields Tavern.

"I would advise you all to stay inside for the rest of the day. A dragon's death cries can summon his friends, and I would rather keep watch myself instead of risking any of your lives."

A tremor of fear passed through the crowd, followed by more whispers and murmurs. No thanks were given; he did not expect any. Little by little, the small population dissipated, some returning to their homes or taking refuge in the tavern and inn. In but a few moments, the streets were deserted, and nothing was left outside but the Khajiit and the skeleton of the slain dragon.

It took him a few moments, but after another breath, the Khajiit was able to relax his tensed shoulders. His ears perked and twitched as he took in the sounds around him, making sure he was safe as he pulled off a few of the choice bits of dragon bone for himself. A shallow flicker of contentment crossed his heart; he had been working on a rather nice set of dragon bone armor for himself, and these next few pieces would nearly complete the set. But the moment was fleeting, and back to his usual reverie of weariness and emptiness he went.

The emptiness was what was the worst, really. Making his way up the road and to a hill overlooking the village, numbness seeped into his very being. The heaviness of the dragon's soul had long since left him; though it was painful while it lasted, he almost wished it was back just so that he could _feel_ something. But it did not last, _would not_ last. Panting slightly as he crested the hill, he surveyed the vast landscape in front of him before sitting down and pulling out a small bottle of Argonian Bloodwine he kept for these sorts of situations. A swig or two of the bitter-sour liquid later, a comfortable warmth began to burn in his belly. While it did indeed stave off the cold of the sun's setting, it did not distract him from his own mind as he had hoped.

Dragonborn. _Dovahkiin._ The Listener. The Guild Master. The Harbinger of the Companions, and a werewolf by extension. The Champion of many Daedra. The son of the gods. He was the leader of all, and subject to none. He was the wealthiest man to ever live; no one, not even the Mane of Elsweyr, the High King of Skyrim, or the Emperor, could even begin to compare to the vast amounts of riches he had gathered while out on his excursions. He was practically invincible; skilled in magic and sword, clever and stealthy, a true Khajiit through and through. Three powerful words in _dovah_ tongue, and he could render man, beast, or both in many, many pieces. He was only fifty-seven, and yet he had accrued more knowledge than most could ever hope to in their lifetime. And he still had many, many years to come.

And yet he was still so empty.

Tilting his head back, he drained the rest of the small waterskin of wine, dismally wishing he could drown his thoughts out of his head, wishing he could do _anything_ to fill this void in his soul.

He had been married once. Perhaps that could explain the hole in his heart. It had been three decades ago, but his heart still longed for the Suthay-raht he had called his wife. And his _child,_ his one and only daughter – gods! How could he have let them go? How could he have let them slip from his grasp? The two only people in his life that he cared about, that cared about _him,_ that _loved him..._

A feeling of sickness washed over him, and he abruptly shook his head, as if to shake away a fly. His ears, flattened in response to the pain erupting within his chest, slowly began to relax and raise back up. Around him, the small noises of animals began to quiet down as the sun's light rapidly faded. His eyes narrowed the tiniest bit as he waited for the sun to completely set, allowing himself to adjust to the darker surroundings. A pale, blue-white glow was cast over the icy landscape, bathed in the light of Masser and Secunda.

It was beyond tiring to stay in Skyrim. His heart ached for the hot sands of Elsweyr and the humid jungles that wreathed them. He wished he could be anywhere else; the swamps of Morrowind, the ashy, barren island of Solstheim, the fertile forests of Valenwood. He was trapped here, a caged beast desperate to be free.

He rolled his shoulders, his long tail swishing over the frostbitten grass behind him. Life-draining as it was, he could never leave. It was his job to keep the people of Skyrim safe from a threat they could never dream to handle themselves. His destiny – and his duty – would always be tied to the land of the Nords. The Dragonborn was the savior of Skyrim. The savior of Tamriel. The savior of Nirn itself. His own dreams were powerless against the machinations of the divines. He breathed in the cold, crisp scents of the Skyrim night, his weariness lifting for a few heartbeats. Wearied to the core of his being, beaten and defeated and a god among all aside, he knew he could not fall. No, he would not falter in front of these people. He would not fail the appointment set to him by the gods eons before his conception. He lifted his gaze to the unclouded skies, the stars shining down upon him.

He, Zar'roc, son of Kha'Thar, native of Elsweyr, had a task to finish.

* * *

 **First of all, yes, I'm aware that Zar'roc is not an original name. I got Skyrim the year after it came out, and it coincided with me reading the Inheritance series. Zar'roc was my first character, and I couldn't think of a name. I literally just kind of thought about some of the most recent things I had been reading, picked the name of the sp00ky sword from Christopher Paolini's FANTASTIC books, and it's stuck since then. I'd like to change it to be more accurate to Khajiit language/more original, but I just can't bring myself to do it. Someone shoot me.**

 **ANYWAY, I really, really like Skyrim, and I swear I'm not a furry, but I also absolutely love the Khajiit. Which is funny, since I absolutely hate cats. I find their background to be the most interesting one in Elder Scrolls lore yet, although there's quite a few things that haven't exactly been confirmed. Like the way they breed, how long they live, etc.**

 **So for now, I headcanon that Khajiit live to be about 100-150 years, older than most Men but much less than elven Mer. That way, I get to write about my Khajiit boy being a hell of a lot older than your typical Dragonborn character. He's a tired old man with a begrudging sense of duty, and I love it. 3**

 **Read and review? That'd be very nice and it might simultaneously raise my self-esteem and send it down to the crapper. It's hard to tell these days.**

 **Skyrim (c) Bethesda Studios**

 **Zar'roc character (c) Me, although the name is Christopher Paolini's O O F**


End file.
